


Sleight Of Hand

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e05 Constituency of One, Episode: s05e06 Disaster Relief, Episode: s05e07 Separation of Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-29
Updated: 2005-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Who's REALLY in charge of this White House? (Hint: it isn't the President.)





	1. Sleight Of Hand

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

   


 

**Sleight Of Hand**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** Fanfic can contribute enormously to the identity of TV shows or movies and their characters. Even so, Aaron Sorkin deserves the credit for creation.  
**Summary:** Who's REALLY in charge of this White House? (Hint: it isn't the President.)  
**Author's Note:** Set Fall 2003; between “Constituency of One” and “Separation of Powers” (5th season) 

~ CHAPTER 1 ~

The office of the White House Chief of Staff was silent. 

Not the silence of emptiness. Not the silence of sleep. Not the silence of waiting. 

The silence of quivering tension. 

Silence did not belong here. Between complexity and relentlessness, this man's schedule rivaled that of the President himself. Papers rustling back and forth, computer keys clicking, conversations on the phone, instructions to staff members present… This man worked hard, and fast, and intently. He played a critical role in the function of an entire country; he helped govern the last and the greatest superpower on earth. 

Leo McGarry rarely indulged his deepest personal feelings at any time in his life, and certainly not at work. He simply didn't have the time. 

In utter defiance of that long-standing reputation, today he made time. 

He sat at his desk, elbows on the blotter, hands sometimes rubbing, sometimes clasping – the sole source of movement. His expression resided somewhere between grim and ominous. His eyes dwelt on an unspecific spot near the opposite wall. 

Behind those eyes, thoughts roiled. 

The job, the White House and the country would just have to wait a moment. 

The ingrained instinct for noticing all that happened around him, an instinct essential to anyone who worked in federal politics and particularly in this great building, knew when a silent presence appeared in his open doorway. He did not react; it could only be his assistant. No one else would have crossed that threshold without speaking to her first. 

The presence said nothing, came no closer. 

Leo ignored her unvoiced question. If she had come to inform him of something or to ask a question, she'd have spoken up at the start. 

Margaret knew him too well, had worked for him too long, had seen him go through more than one kind of private hell. She knew that, for him, this stillness was positively unnatural. She had come to check on him. She was worried. 

She was right to be, but he couldn't tell her that just yet. He needed more time to think about this. 

In the same silence, the presence departed. She understood how to wait for him. 

Any moment now his phone was going to ring. Or a staff member would arrive to ask a question. Or that carved wooden door to his right would swing open. In another heartbeat something would interrupt and demand attention… 

Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. 

"Margaret." 

She whirled, ready to leap up and dash in to receive her orders, but he was already out of his office and into hers. 

Her visibly anxious attitude did not ease. Her boss might be moving around again, might have abandoned that unnerving immobility, but he had almost _whispered_ her name. Usually he bellowed. 

"Something's come up. I need the next half-hour cleared." 

She nodded, showing no resignation, no annoyance – just acceptance. Things came up with alarming frequency and frustratingly short notice around here. 

"And probably a few other spots later on in the day. We'll see." 

She nodded again, clearly appreciating the head's-up. At least they'd lasted until almost ten AM before the day's schedule fell apart. She was a past expert at sewing it back together again, smoothly rebooking whatever appointments had to be bumped for matters of national importance. It was one more reason why they worked so well together. 

Leo cast a wary glance behind him, towards his own office. Towards that carved wooden door. 

"And I don't want the President to know about it yet." 

This time her eyebrows rose. Such a condition wasn't completely unheard-of, but it was a far less common circumstance. By definition Leo's job covered matters of great importance and sensitivity. His current problem had to be very important, and very sensitive. Sometimes their national leader needed to stay ignorant of particular steps taken, at least at the outset. In the worst-case scenarios, such as when things went right down the tubes, he might benefit from the advantage of maintaining plausible deniability. 

Leo could see her pondering the likely causes. A natural disaster? There'd be no hiding that, and no reason to. A terrorist attack? Leo would never keep his Commander-in-Chief in the dark about anything that affected national security. An epidemic? It made sense not to tell the press for fear of starting a panic, but why hide it from the President? 

A political attack? Those were par for the course around here, seldom anything to get all that excited about. It could be aimed at almost anyone from the President on down, or it could be about the administration as a whole. Granted, sometimes the staff didn't bring their leader into the loop until they had not only the details but also a solution. But Margaret had seen that scenario play out many times before, and she knew her boss very well. Leo's current, detectable agitation didn't seem to fit the bill. 

A personal attack? Someone about to do something "to" the President? That could run the full spectrum from a vindictive congressional enemy to the latest ridiculous tabloid insinuation. There were a _few_ privileged matters guaranteed to send him ballistic. Nobody with a sense of self-preservation willingly courted Jed Bartlet's rage. Still, Leo was one person who didn't fear the executive temper, and he had long since accepted his unenviable job of often delivering unwelcome facts. 

A personal emergency? If it were about a White House employee, Leo certainly wouldn't broadcast it, but neither would he actively deny their ultimate employer his right to know. If it were about any member of the First Family, it wouldn't come through Leo first anyway. And if it were about Leo himself, or one of _his_ family, he simply wouldn't admit to it. 

A scandal? That made marginally more sense; keep the Oval Office untainted. But if Leo wanted to hide it from the President, even temporarily, then the one person it couldn't involve _was_ the President. Knowledge is power. 

He knew Margaret would not ask, trusting that he'd tell her when and if he had to. 

He dearly hoped he _wouldn't_ have to. 

"Move Senior Staff up to ten-fifteen. I'll be back before then." 

"Where will you be?" She had to ask that; her job included being able to reach him on a moment's notice in a real emergency. 

The way he hesitated made her eyes widen, erasing all hope that this wasn't an emergency already. 

"Ask the Secret Service. But only if you really need to." 

***** 

Leo marched briskly down the corridors of the West Wing. Other employees parted before him; they didn't actually square up as they did when the President passed by, but they gave ground with due respect to one of the sharpest politicians and the second most powerful individual in the United States. If anyone noticed that he did not have some kind of report in hand, a rare occurrence in itself, no one presumed to comment. He was clearly on a mission. 

He was always on a mission – and any mission that demanded the full attention of the President's right-hand man must not be delayed. 

En route, he pulled out his cellular phone and dialed. He had a very good reason for not using his office landline with its identifying number and its easily-traceable call records. If someone wanted to track his _mobile_ communications, they'd have to go outside the White House, and it would take them a lot longer to find out whom he was contacting. 

The response was gratifyingly swift. Time would be an elusive ally today. 

"McGarry. We need to talk, now. And we need a top-secret location to do so." 

The brief pause on the other end of the line would have been the equivalent of a gasp of astonishment for almost anyone else. Then the voice made an offer. 

"Good. On my way." Leo snapped the phone shut and picked up his pace. Hoping with every stride that the man he was about to meet would prove him wrong. 

***** 

Margaret saw him first, striding back down the hall on his return trip, and he could see her relax from thirty feet away. Leo running late wouldn't amaze anyone; even his extremely capable assistant couldn't always prevent that. However, Leo vanishing off the radar for any length of time was irregular in the extreme. 

He felt no great surprise that she'd chosen to stand in the doorway rather than stay at her computer and simply await him. He'd set off her internal warning system big-time. 

The sound of voices inside his office told him that the troops had been rallied. 

"Don't ask me; I have no idea –" Josh Lyman broke off his conversation as the chairman to this meeting arrived. 

"I bet _he_ does," Toby Ziegler guessed with his usual sardonic wit, moving aside to allow Leo access to his desk. 

"No argument there." C.J. Cregg was watching with narrowed eyes. She could be as perceptive as Margaret at her best; she'd already picked up something in the air. 

Leo gathered an armload of papers, barely glancing at any of them. "Good; keep the arguments for later. Come on. We need more room." 

More room than here, the second largest office in the West Wing? Nonplussed, the trio slowly formed ranks and followed him. 

Margaret jerked up as they entered her area, no less startled. Already paging through his collection of reports, Leo ignored her. He knew what would transpire next. Sure enough, after they had passed he heard her rise and trail after them for a few steps. Within those few steps, she was hoping that one of two things would happen: either Leo would mention their destination, or else he would reach it. 

The Roosevelt Room was within line of sight of the office they'd just left. Margaret braked the moment her boss opened its door, reassured. 

The Senior Staff did not share that reassurance yet. Even the men had clued in by now that something was drastically wrong. 

Leo dropped his files on the polished conference table, spread them out, obtained his reading glasses, and picked up a lined notepad. "So, where are we on the pharmacy convocation?" He did not sit down. 

Josh and C.J. exchanged one confused look. Toby solemnly closed the door. Unlike the Chief of Staff's office, this chamber was soundproof. Clearly they had started to wonder if Leo wanted _that_ benefit rather than the extra space. But what could be so sensitive about another standard political proposal that it must not be overheard by anyone? 

And the only people who could conceivably overhear anything said in the Chief of Staff's office were Margaret – and the President himself. 

None of the three sat down, either. A bad case of nerves had already galloped in among them, clenching fingers and tightening muscles. 

"Uh…" Josh took the initiative and made an effort to play along until they got some answers. "Baxter is on board now, but I've been getting mixed signals from Andersen." 

"Lean on him." Leo kept his eyes on his pad, scribbling rapidly. 

"If we lose Andersen, I can name a few others that will defect as well." C.J. sounded a bit distracted, quite unlike her. She was paying more attention to Leo than to their discussion on legislative finagling. 

Said finagling still remained an important issue. Toby shifted feet. "The previous attempt slipped through our fingers for lack of that same support." 

Josh blew out in frustration. "We've tacked so many riders on it this time, no one'll recognize the original bill!" 

"Two strikes, we're out." Leave it to Toby to use a baseball metaphor. 

"Hence the need for camouflage." Leo was still intent on his writing. 

C.J. gave up on the charade. "Why do I get the feeling that there's another kind of camouflage in the works right now – right here?" 

This time Leo looked around. "Probably because there is." With one abrupt motion, he tossed the pad onto the tabletop. It slid across the wood and came to a stop in front of his employees, right side up, facing them, its inscribed message plain to see. 

All three crowded around to read. 

Leo took off his glasses, pocketed his pen, and waited. One second… two… three… 

C.J. jolted upright, staring at the Chief of Staff in rippling shock. 

Toby lifted only his eyes, his lips in a hard, straight line. 

Josh didn't move at all, except to let his mouth fall open. 

Both C.J. and Toby looked down again, plainly wishing that the words on that page would change their structure, their meaning, their import in one more shrieking second… 

They didn't, and they wouldn't. When that cold fact sank in, the three staffers straightened in unison. 

Leo returned their stunned expressions, his posture ramrod-stiff, his own features a stern mask. 

The silence stretched out. 

C.J. breathed first, with an effort. "You're serious." 

"I could be wrong." 

Josh shook his head dazedly. "It's not possible…" 

"We're looking into the technicalities now. In the meantime…" 

Toby made the connection first. "You want our take on this." 

"I want you to prove me wrong." 

He trusted them implicitly. If they disagreed with his evaluation, he would accept that he was in error. 

If they concurred… 

"But… you'd know better than any of us," Josh pointed out, more than a little nervous. 

"I refuse to take any chances with this." 

C.J. instantly made the connection. "The walls will go up around you more than around us." 

"Got it in one." 

Toby stuffed hands into pockets, answering the call to battle. "And the repercussions?" 

"Not until and unless we know for sure. Then we'll discuss it." 

"We'll have to talk to a few other people," Josh mentioned slowly, feeling his way through this new, totally unanticipated minefield. 

"We can't tell them up front," Toby stated with iron certainty. 

C.J. agreed. "If even the _suspicion_ gets out…" 

Silence. Four pairs of eyes traded very sober looks. 

"This will be the ultimate test of your acting skills." Leo checked his watch. "We'll meet back here at noon. Be very discreet." 

He picked up the pad again, tore off the top page with its message of upheaval, methodically crumpled that page into the smallest wad he could, and put it in his pocket. 

The full reason for this written approach, and for them using this chamber, became immediately evident: to keep their initial reactions under wraps. Not one whisper must leak. 

***** 

The office of the President's second-in-command was no longer silent. The phone rang, papers rustled, computer keys clicked and conversations took place. However, Leo was having trouble concentrating. Despite his best efforts, the tension refused to let up at all. Suspicion hung over his head like a cloud… or a sword. 

Just before noon, a special phone call came through – not to Leo's desk, but to his mobile. He snatched it up, knowing that this was it. 

"McGarry." A listening quiet. "Coming." 

Time to find out if their idyllic world was about to come to an end. 

Margaret must have heard; the inner door was, after all, wide open. She had already swiveled to face him as he approached. 

"If anyone asks, I'm taking lunch." 

Her eyebrows shot up, an identical reaction to this morning. He almost always had her order something up from the mess instead, so as not to take time away from his work. 

He read her transparent thoughts and nearly smiled. "Don't give me that look. You can even take the credit for it." 

Margaret _did_ smile. "And where should I _not_ say you are?" 

Just like this morning, he paused. "I'm not sure yet. But the men in black will know." 

She got the message loud and clear; her smile evaporated on the spot. 

***** 

"You're sure?" 

Ron Butterfield did not take offense at what would normally be an insult. When the Special Agent in Charge of White House Security made a report, he was never anything _but_ sure. "There was a window of opportunity. It's slim, but it existed." 

"God." Any desperate optimism Leo had nurtured was shriveling fast. 

The two men stood alone in a small room in the West Wing basement, windowless, empty save for a table and chair, and boasting a very secure lock. It doubled as a holding cell in the extreme unlikelihood that someone might succeed in penetrating the airtight cordon around the entire White House complex… because the Secret Service well knew that nothing was truly impossible. 

Right now it was trapping Leo – forcing him to listen to bald truths, reducing the chance that his original supposition could be inaccurate after all. 

"We've already confirmed the others' safety, without tipping them off. And we're checking files. So far, no cause for concern." 

The Chief of Staff dared to breathe more regularly. "Just maybe I am blowing this out of proportion." 

Ron did not reply at once, and Leo tensed anew. Uncertainty in this senior agent was as unusual as it was foreboding. 

When the next statement came, it was simple and devastating. 

"But we have a suspect." 

***** 

Leo was already in the Roosevelt Room, seated at one end of the long table, trying valiantly to work, when the Senior Staff shuffled in. 

It played out like a pantomime. They closed the door behind them and lined up against the table's side at right angles to their boss, in eerie silence. He used those quiet seconds to put down his pen, remove his spectacles and shove the current folder aside, before raising his eyes to meet theirs. 

Four grimmer expressions could scarcely be imagined. 

Leo had to hear them say it. He would not instigate any measures unless he and they were sure. "Well?" 

"I spoke to Debbie," C.J. said softly. 

"I spoke to Charlie," Josh offered in a tone equally subdued. 

Toby had deliberately waited to be last. "I just came from the Oval." 

His colleagues looked hard at him. Normally he was the most difficult to read – but not this time. 

Leo regarded each in turn. They reflected that look just as steadily, just as somberly. 

Consensus. 

Now he stood. Radiating a cold fury and a grinding fear. 

"I'm afraid it's a go." 

Bracing himself, he gave voice to their joint conviction and their mutual dread. In so doing, he made the most critical decision, the most fateful judgment call, the most frightening announcement of this entire administration. 

"The man currently sitting in the Oval Office is not Jed Bartlet."


	2. Sleight Of Hand 2

 

**Sleight Of Hand**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** Fanfic can contribute enormously to the identity of TV shows or movies and their characters. Even so, Aaron Sorkin deserves the credit for creation.  
**Summary:** Who's REALLY in charge of this White House? (Hint: it isn't the President.)  
**Author's Note:** Set Fall 2003; between “Constituency of One” and “Separation of Powers” (5th season) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 2 ~

"When… when did you first suspect…?" Josh's voice was low, both from caution and from shock. 

Leo exhaled heavily. His closest staff members had done exactly what he'd needed them to do, if not what he'd hoped they would do. They had confirmed his suspicions of a scenario so fiendish, so beyond plausibility, that it didn't even appear as a scenario in the Secret Service manual. 

The tightest security perimeter in the world, on which the stability of a nation depended, had been breached. 

The leader of the free world, wielder of almost untold political power, capable of both great benefit and great destruction, had been replaced by a phony. 

The friend he'd known for over thirty years, whom he'd promised to help and serve unstintingly, had been abducted. 

Right now the White House Chief of Staff found it very hard to think. 

"I'm not exactly sure. It isn't the sort of thing I expect to have to worry about. But the clues have been there right from the start this morning." Leo looked at the closest wall of the very handsomely appointed Roosevelt Room. "Coming down from the Residence, he was glancing constantly all around him… as though he's never seen the halls, the artwork, before." 

That in itself could hardly have been enough, but thanks to hindsight… 

"And the Oval Office?" Toby asked with quiet certainty. 

"Yeah. A _big_ hesitation there." 

"Realizing the magnitude of his audacity." 

"I sure wouldn't call it reverence." 

C.J. studied the Communications Director. "You've been in there already today." 

"I had an excuse for a few words. He called me by name, too." A flash of pain crossed Toby's usually ultra-reserved features. 

The depths of preparation for this crime didn't surprise anyone. "Any impersonator would have to do serious homework," Leo observed. "Faces, names… routine…" 

"His motions were just a bit stiff. Rehearsed. He has to think about every move he makes. He's a very good actor, but he's trying to play something not natural to him." 

"It's a demanding role," C.J. commented with marvelous understatement. 

"It's a demanding role for the man himself!" Toby countered sharply. Even the _real_ Jed Bartlet seldom found the Presidency to be a simple task. 

"But – it looks like him?" Josh pressed, groping for a flaw that might dissipate this nightmare. "It _sounds_ like him?" 

"It does." Pause. "But it's not." 

None of them could escape the appalling truth any longer. Through the veil of his own mental whirlpool – incredulity, rage, panic – Leo watched similar emotions flit across the faces aligned before him. These three supremely trustworthy individuals had joined him in a secret that could topple a government and destroy world peace. 

Their pain added to his. His instinct had been to spare them that pain. But he couldn't do this alone. He didn't know yet if even together they could get through it, in one piece or at all. He did, however, draw considerable comfort from the knowledge that their united front stood the best possible chance. 

Right now these four were all the chance their national leader had. 

Despite the tautness to her facial skin and the strain to her respirations, C.J. grappled head-on with the sweeping logistics. "They needed someone with the right build, the voice –" 

"And they needed a lot of plastic surgery," Leo added. "Which doesn't heal overnight. This has been in the works for months. Then he had to practice the intonations, the mannerisms and the staff details." 

"The sense of humor. He didn't crack one joke." Usually the last person to appreciate Jed Bartlet's razor wit, Toby mourned that dearth already. But it was one more brick in the foundation shoring up their suspicions. All doubt had been rinsed from his posture. He stood rigidly, like a soldier primed to go over the top at any instant. 

"And he was in the Residence, probably for hours." The Press Secretary's eyes flamed as more details fell into place, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that depicted nothing short of violation. "He had access to the President's own wardrobe. Soap, shampoo, cologne, even toothpaste. All of it." 

Her companions stared at her. 

She glared right back. "Don't any of you tell me that only a woman would notice things like that! We all spend a considerable amount of time in close proximity with the President. Scents are part of every person's identity. The olfactory sense and long-term memory are intertwined. This guy couldn't risk a change; that'd send up warning flags on its own." 

"All of which still won't get him through even a single day in this place!" While Toby possessed the greater volume, Josh channeled the wilder animation. He exploded into a flurry of gestures. "He doesn't have the President's knowledge or experience with state affairs, command decisions, bills on the table…" 

"This is a day with no outside events," Leo reminded them. "He doesn't have to worry about visiting places or schmoozing people he's supposed to know. What he _has_ done is order up all paperwork on the current bills and policies that are not public knowledge, or have been sealed from public eyes." 

Josh's political acumen zeroed in at once. "He'd have boned up in advance, but there are a few things not available outside the White House." 

"Or even outside the Oval at times." Toby held Leo in his unblinking glower. "That's what really twigged you." It was not a question. 

The Chief of Staff nodded shortly. "He targeted everything he couldn't have accessed ahead of time. All the things we're most likely to bring up around him today." 

Josh kept shaking his head. "I still can't believe anyone could think they'd get away with this for any length of time! Do they believe we don't know him at all?" 

"If Mrs. Landingham were still here, he wouldn't stand an orchid's chance in Antarctica of pulling it off." C.J.'s voice wavered for a moment at the memory of grief. 

No one wasted breath agreeing with her; their silence said it all. The President's personal secretary was also his personal firewall. Debbie Fiderer had proven herself very capable in a short period of time, but she didn't have years of history with Jed Bartlet's foibles, and thus couldn't be expected to notice their unexplained absence. 

Regretfully, Leo touched on the other sore spot. "Or any other member of the Family." 

This silence trembled. The First Lady and her youngest daughter were still sequestered in New Hampshire, with no known plans to return. 

True, there was a severe strain between the First Couple these days… but a shiver rippled from one member of this quartet to another as they contemplated telling Abigail Bartlet that they'd lost her husband. 

Never mind telling the nation that they'd lost its President. 

Toby ran a hand up his forehead. "This timing was no coincidence." 

"For sure." Even if the impostor honestly believed himself up to fooling the staff, at least for a while, he could not be so brainless as to attempt to deceive the wife. 

If things weren't so dire, the mental image of Abbey's reaction to the truth would be thoroughly entertaining – in a visceral, vengeful kind of way. 

The Deputy Chief of Staff peered hard at his boss. "Even if he thinks we're not that close, he can't get away from you." 

"Yeah." The President's right-hand man started to look downright ferocious. Their long friendship, built upon decades of unquestioned fidelity and blunt honesty, was a huge asset. It was also public knowledge. "He put off our first meeting this morning – but he has to know that won't work more than once." 

"You're expecting him to ship you off to some conference on the Hill?" C.J. guessed. 

"Any moment now." 

"And if you turn him down –" 

"He'll know we know." 

"We don't have much time," Josh stated the obvious. 

"Our visitor doesn't, either." Leo raked them all with an appraising eye. "What's the atmosphere in the outer office?" 

"Debbie hasn't picked up any currents on her own. Except to say that he seemed a bit moody," C.J. amended. "And that happens often enough not to spark any real concern. Yet." 

"Never thought I'd bless the day that we landed such an idiosyncratic President," Toby muttered. His colleagues almost smiled at him. 

Leo made no such attempt. "Those idiosyncrasies probably saved our bacon today. Otherwise we might not have noticed in time." 

How many other world leaders could boast a cadre of employees who not only merited his personal trust, but knew him so well that they could detect the smallest problems? 

"Charlie did ask me if something serious was on the books," Josh reported. 

C.J. arched an elegant eyebrow. "Why should he think that? This is only the White House." 

"Something more serious than usual," Josh resignedly corrected himself. "Bad enough to cause some brooding." 

"Sharp kid." Not that they all hadn't known that for awhile now. 

"Yeah. I implied that there's a personal political… blip… on the horizon." 

"An oxymoron and a minimization in the same sentence." Toby's flat tone made it hard to tell if he was complimenting or criticizing. 

"We have to bring Charlie in," Leo decided grimly. 

Josh frowned. "You think he's going to get shipped out next?" 

"He spends more time around the President than anyone else, bar none. If the impostor didn't know that before – which I sincerely doubt, given the research required for this – he sure will by now. Plus, we don't want Charlie jumping to his own conclusions." 

Josh's forehead kinked even more. "How much risk are we talking about for him?" He'd always felt big-brotherly towards the personal aide. Helping said personal aide land the job of a lifetime might have had something to do with it. 

"No more than the rest of us," Toby mused darkly. "Fictitious or otherwise, the President can't fire the whole White House staff." 

"Or barricade himself in the Residence," C.J. pitched in just as darkly. 

"So what can he do? He can't keep this up for long!" Josh was getting frenetic. "Someone's got to notice something!" 

"I just had a new thought." C.J. stood tall against the close looks now aimed her way. "If he's studied his role too well – then people will also notice if the President suddenly starts to get the support staffers' names right." 

Josh rolled his eyes. "Great; _another_ complication." 

Leo drew a careful breath, betraying his worry at the magnitude of the problem they faced. "And then there's the medical file." 

The others were instantly in synch. One bruise or cut, _anything_ requiring even a cursory examination by the President's physician, would blow the lid off the entire illusion. Even the most extensive plastic surgery can't create a perfect carbon copy. 

C.J.'s voice dropped to just above a whisper. "He might be counting on the staff chalking up any minor personality shifts to the MS." 

Josh's jaw clenched. "Never thought that might be a disadvantage _this_ way." 

Toby swung back on track, more immobile and focused than ever. "Any ideas _how_ this could have been pulled off to start?" 

Leo stood just as motionless. "I've already spoken with Ron twice today: first to voice my suspicion, then to hear what he's turned up so far. There was a window last night, where – provided one particular agent is in on this – a switch could have been made." 

Mouths sagged. A Secret Service agent on the take? 

"I don't have the details, but it would involve the agent in question smuggling the impersonator in – and the President out." He hesitated, fighting a deep inner pain. "Presumably unconscious at the least." 

The trio winced together. 

"There's no way this could work without an agent in the inside. The suspect was hardly under personal surveillance himself last night, but all movements are tracked, and Ron saw enough to raise some questions." 

Josh jumped. "He can't be the only one. They'd need a second agent to cover the first guy's ass for those critical minutes…" 

Toby's eyes were hooded. "And at least one other guy on the outside to get the President away from the White House. Probably more than one, since they'd need to carry him. Then they'd need to mount a guard over him when they got wherever they were going." 

Assuming they didn't kidnap him with intent to _bury_ him. 

"Don't forget the medical staff who did the plastic surgery." C.J. knotted her fists. 

Josh still looked shell-shocked. "A plant inside the Service…" 

It was unthinkable. But then, even the most professional bodyguards in the world are human, and as such are potentially susceptible to certain soul-crushing dilemmas. To name only one: blackmail. 

"Ron has already pulled personnel files," Leo informed them soberly. "Nothing so far. Still, the evidence of an impostor leaves us no other interpretation. Ron's in the waiting and watching mode right now – ready to nail the suspect on a moment's notice. But he can't move too fast or he'll tip off the plant _and_ his fellow conspirators. Especially if there's a second agent on the other side's payroll." 

"Why are we waiting at all?" Toby almost shouted. Like their Commander-in-Chief, his volume rose in direct proportion to his perturbation. "We're discussing security procedure and staff sensibilities like we have all the time in the world! We need to send out the Marines and the National Guard of every state in the union! Mobilize the entire Armed Forces! The President of the United States has been _abducted_!" 

That last word echoed with all the import it deserved. 

Thank God for soundproof walls and doors. 

Vivid thoughts of what Jed Bartlet was almost certainly going through right now beat the color from C.J.'s face. Josh looked little better. All at once these four seemed to be telepathically linked. Their national leader, their elected representative, their political personification of the country's identity, their _friend_ – was in enemy hands. Hands that had no reason at all to be gentle. 

He could be anywhere in the world by now. 

He could be in any amount of pain. 

He could be dead. 

With the switch a success, what conceivable use would the captors have for the real President? 

None – unless they were cornered. Then they'd have the world's greatest hostage. 

Hostages are rarely coddled; quite the reverse. A weakened prisoner is easier to control. 

And Jed Bartlet was neither a man nor a President to take imprisonment passively. His duty and his personality wouldn't permit surrender. Which increased his danger exponentially. 

Assuming he wasn't beyond all mortal aid already… 

Leo's imagination had been at work far longer than that of his staffers, but he forced himself to close that door again. He wouldn't be able to function with it open and screaming its message of imprisonment, assault and suffering. 

"Ron's on that as well. We can't help him there." 

"What can we do?" Josh came close to yelling as well. 

All four positively ached to blast out of here and start searching for their Chief Executive personally. Now. 

Leo tried to rein them in at least a bit. They would best serve their Chief Executive by fulfilling their own duty. "Our job is to figure out why." 

"No points there," Josh almost snarled. "This is the dream of every traitor!" 

"Most traitors just try to kill him. Why go to the enormous effort _and risk_ of replacing him instead? What could anyone realistically hope to achieve? The powers of the Presidency are too carefully balanced and restricted. The framers of the Constitution were probably thinking delusions of grandeur and insanity rather than impersonation, but their safeguards serve the same purpose." 

Leo's implacable logic started the mental wheels turning anew. 

Toby spoke first. "He can't just suddenly decide to bomb somebody, or order a massive release of funding, or wipe poverty off the human map." 

Interestingly, these four were using the same pronoun to refer both to the real President and to the ersatz one. The way they projected that simple two-letter word, either with respect or with loathing, eliminated any ambiguity. 

C.J. massaged her forehead, as though the wrestling match with this monstrous situation physically hurt. "Any plan to use the political clout of the Oval Office has to be _very_ long-term. The impostor's got only a few days at the most." 

"What could possibly be done before suspicions mount?" Josh wondered aloud. "A personal endorsement of an independent political group?" 

Leo waited. 

A strange stillness settled upon the Roosevelt Room. 

Inch by inch, the three staffers turned only their heads, as though afraid that sudden body motion might shatter the last of their self-control. 

The Chief of Staff saw that they had finally reached the same conclusion as he had. So he said it for them. 

"Resignation." 

Dead silence. 

Josh recovered first. "Russell did this." 

"Perhaps." Leo refused to commit himself just yet. 

"Who else? Who else could have a better motive? Who else stands to benefit directly if the President is replaced? The impostor could be preparing his letter _right_ _now_!" 

C.J. gave a reluctant nod. "Russell's been in office over two months. Long enough for plastic surgery to heal. He could've launched this little plot device right after his appointment." 

"He knows he'll never win his own election." Josh was building a fine head of steam. "This way, his lackey hands him the Presidency on a silver platter!" 

"It's the one document the Oval Office permits that doesn't take long at all." C.J. got that statement out only with difficulty. 

They acknowledged the glaring truth of her words. They'd already witnessed that very act once before. 

Once was one time _way_ too many. 

"He's already stolen Will," Josh went on furiously. "Will knows enough about the West Wing and the Oval Office to grease the transition. Russell probably planned this from day one!" 

Leo didn't comment, still waiting. 

Toby _did_ comment. He must've tracked Leo's chain of deduction. "Or he could be a dupe." 

Josh's arm-waving tirade braked short. "Bingo Bob? That wouldn't be a challenge." 

C.J. blinked. "You can't believe that _Will_ is behind this." Toby had never made a secret of his animosity about his former Deputy's defection to the Vice President's staff. Still, they were talking real treason now. 

"No." Not even the cynical Communications Director believed the idealistic William Bailey to be capable of that. "But what if someone _else_ thinks that Russell would be a better President?" 

Now Leo spoke. "Or a more easily manipulated one." 

"Russell isn't capable of this level of subterfuge." Toby sounded very confident of that. 

"He's not stupid," Leo contradicted. "Boring and uninspiring, maybe, but he's got some brains in there somewhere. He did become Vice President." 

"Because we couldn't get anyone else confirmed! His only virtue was that the Republicans didn't hate him more than we do!" 

Josh bared his teeth. "He tops my suspect list. That dumb act is covering his real agenda. And we swallowed it!" 

Leo didn't fall in with this theory, either. "Even if he was up to that caliber of back-stabbing, above and beyond the Washington norm, I don't think he's treacherous enough to take on the President. Besides, the VP would be the obvious culprit to _everyone_. He wouldn't dare." 

Josh's leaping anger settled back into a slow burn. "Which increases the odds that he's being manipulated already." 

If possible, C.J. paled even further. "The impostor resigns… and Russell is catapulted into the White House. He doesn't have much in the way of experience at this level – and he doesn't have anything like the President's fortitude." 

Leo gave one forward jerk of his head. "Lady and gentlemen, we have a motive." 

Silence. The glances that traveled from face to face were more anxious than ever. The Secret Service was working out the technicalities: means and opportunity. This team had completed that critical triangle of criminal action by figuring out the political intent. 

Toby interjected a new note. "Time for another wrinkle. There has to be a _reason_ for an executive resignation. A very good reason. Any takers?" 

That _was_ a wrinkle – one even Leo hadn't anticipated. And it was every bit as much of a problem for the impostor as for them. 

"Can't be on medical grounds," Josh said slowly, his brain churning away. "MS, depression… He complains of a headache and the medical staff will be all over him." 

"And it's not as though the President resigning won't be international news," C.J. observed acerbically. "Plus, it took a horrible threat to his daughter's life to get him to step down on a _temporary_ basis. Some people might not have agreed with him, but they damned well understood. It's a sure bet he won't give up the office again for anything less." 

Toby took over the argument, in full concurrence. His emphasis on the third person masculine pronoun shifted audibly. " _He_ can't just up and sign away the office on a whim. Every citizen in the country would question first his sanity, _then_ his identity. Like it or not, he answers to the world media now. His excuse has to stand up to public scrutiny." 

Leo's brows drew together into a really ominous scowl, accompanied by a sick tickle of realization in his stomach. "He'd need a catalyst." 

The one that most readily came to mind invoked memories of terror. 

This time it was Josh who went pale. "An assassination attempt. Either on him – or on the Family." 

Toby squeezed his eyes shut, as though to deny the remotest possibility of that horror taking physical shape. Again. 

C.J.'s fingers gripped the nearest chair back until the wood creaked. Only that death-grip kept her from trembling. "A near-miss wouldn't be enough. The President stood firm after Rosslyn, and he held out over Zoey's disappearance." For the first time any of her colleagues could remember, her voice cracked. "They'd have to _kill_ someone!" 

"Starting with their own candidate." 

The three staffers whirled back to their boss. 

Leo wasn't sure if he should be pleased with his inspiration at ferreting out such a devious plan of action, or dismayed that he could plot such maliciousness himself. 

He pressed on, fording the current of conspiracy. "They only injure their plant, and the medical discrepancies come out. This way they don't have to worry about an _excuse_ to resign. An autopsy wouldn't happen before Russell was sworn in." 

For several seconds it seemed like none of them could inhale at all. 

Josh blinked repeatedly in disbelief. "You think this actor knows?" 

C.J. actually snorted. "Not likely." 

"Maybe he's got a death wish. Go out in a blaze of glory." 

"What's the _point_!" C.J. snapped. "The coroner wouldn't be fooled for long. Impersonation won't buy him a grave in Arlington." 

"So he thinks he'll just have a close call. But he's ready to ham it up that, after Rosslyn and Zoey, and now this, he's just gone through too much to take any more of this unrelenting pressure." Josh held himself very stiffly. "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." 

All of them had witnessed the personality-warping effectiveness of _that_ condition before. 

"Hm; will work. Even a President is a human being. Far fewer people would question his totally uncharacteristic decision to quit as a result." 

"Leaving aside the minor detail of the Secret Service," Toby added quietly. 

Whose wall of protection had already been compromised once today. 

Leo felt bombarded by this plethora of factors, pummeled from all sides. "Getting through security is a lot easier if the guy in the center of the bubble _wants_ to let you in. Nobody would question a personal Presidential 'guest' dropping by on short notice. On top of that, he'd grease the escape route so that his partner in crime gets away after the 'failed' attempt." 

C.J. gnawed on her lower lip. "At least that approach means the Family isn't at risk after all. He has to stay away from them if this illusion is going to hold water for any length of time. And their protection is still intact." That eliminated the appalling thought of someone spraying the entire Bartlet clan with automatic machine-gun fire… 

It did not eliminate the potential of injury to the Secret Service or the Senior Staff, who always walked in their leader's immediate presence. 

Leo felt no optimism, for a few reasons. " _His_ risk is something else. The best possible way that his 'friends' can protect him and themselves from arrest is to make sure he doesn't live to realize he's been double-crossed and rat them out. Alive, he's the only enemy agent we can get hold of for sure." 

"And every additional hour boosts the likelihood of him being found out." Josh swallowed. "It has to go down today." 

"It's an internal day; he's expected to stay put." Leo picked his way carefully through this maze, searching out one elusive clue at a time. "The killer has to come here." 

"Check the schedule for visitors! The name had to have been added this morning!" 

"A pseudonym for sure," C.J. countered. 

"If said accomplice is going to have any hope of escape, he needs to be alone with his victim. No witnesses." Toby's tone was relentless. "Then he's got to get clear of the White House before anyone stumbles across the body." 

C.J. got the drift. "All he'd have to do is walk out of the room and claim that the President's catching a nap. No one would intrude for quite some time – not until they had to." 

Josh looked like he was ready to be sick. " _That's_ why they planted a look-alike, instead of just going after the real President. The assassin would never be able to arrange both a private drop-in and a fast track out. But with one friend in the Oval Office and another in the Secret Service ranks, he'll get clean away!" 

Right before his eyes, Leo saw the scene unfold: Charlie walking into that office and trying to rouse the prostrate figure on the couch from what appeared to be a peaceful sleep… 

C.J. rotated her shoulders, one at a time, as though to shrug herself free from a similar mental image. "Meanwhile, the target thinks he's going to get a mere scratch at most –" 

Josh disagreed. "Nah, gotta be a _bit_ more than that. First off, he knows this has to look like a serious threat if he's going to resign over it. Second, he has to give his pal a head start before he raises the alarm. I bet he's planning to faint from the shock." 

"Blade or bludgeon?" Toby mused, his attitude chillingly matter-of-fact. "Aside from the metal detectors, even a silencer won't be quiet enough with agents standing right outside." 

Leo flinched at such a graphic image, much less taking place in such a hallowed setting. Much less wearing such a beloved face. 

Josh wasn't looking at him or anyone else, his eyes unfocused yet far-seeing. "The moment the assault hits the airwaves, the Family is going to charge over here. The counterfeit will never be able to fool them. If he survives, he has to resign on the spot, and then he has to be spirited away pronto before he can be unmasked." 

"If he survives, the whole thing will come out almost at once," Leo concurred. "If he does manage to vanish afterward, everyone will know he was an impostor. And if he's arrested, he can take his pals down with him. Why go to the bother, or run the risk? But if he dies, there's a slim chance the medical examiner might not look closely enough after all. Either way, the rest of the syndicate gets off scot-free." 

And an impersonator, a conspirator, a traitor, would be buried with full state honors… while the man truly deserving of such recognition would be mercilessly consigned to an unmarked grave, never to be found. That boosted their firestorm outrage right up into supernova status. 

Toby gazed at the ceiling, as though searching for divine guidance. "So now we have to protect this guy as well as expose him." 

The last particle of reality evaporated. Just across the hall was a person who had committed a hideous act of invasion, a person who deserved their undying enmity – a person at dire risk himself of lethal assault. A person who, as much as they might like to see him punished, they had to safeguard against assault by anyone else. They absolutely needed to get information out of him _first_. 

None of this changed the fact that such a Machiavellian plot could endanger the lives of several others as well, their own included. That the nation hovered on the cusp of chaos. That the President of the United States was unaccounted for. That right this minute an impostor occupied the Oval Office. 

All four took a moment, torturously digesting – Leo never doubted that his colleagues' thoughts were every bit as anguished as his – the sheer scope of this plot. World peace. National identity. Government stability. White House continuity. First Family unity. 

He himself took an extra moment to acknowledge his own personal stake: a friendship beyond the blood ties of brotherhood. 

"Do you think…" C.J. was uncharacteristically hesitant, and her almost plaintive tone drew everyone's attention. "If they pull it off, and Russell is sworn in… do you think they just might let the President go?" 

Was there _any_ chance of that happening, no matter how slim? 

"I mean, the damage will have been done. Russell's in. They've achieved their goal. They have nothing else to gain – right? Or if we blow the illusion open first, then they've lost anyway. They don't need to compound the crime… They don't need to…" 

Leo almost flinched again at this scramble for the faintest glimmer of a desperate hope. He hated to crush it, but they all had to accept the worst. 

Toby unwittingly spared him the task. He stood statue-stiff, as though frozen by the sheer awfulness of the future he had just glimpsed. 

"They have to kill 'em both." 

C.J.'s breath burst out as though she'd been slugged in the solar plexus. 

"A living captive can ID his captors." Leo's voice was hoarse. "And that's still not the worst. If the President reappears – alive – then everyone will see him as the victim of assault. They'd want him back in office, Constitution notwithstanding. Even if Russell was duped, he'd lose every bit of public support." 

"Would he ever!" Josh exclaimed. "He'd be seen as a counterfeit himself! The people would never accept him when they can get back the real thing!" 

"And there goes any hope for a more easily maneuvered President." 

"If the President dies," Toby summed up with brutal succinctness, "we're all stuck with the Vice-President anyway. For better or for worse." 

Devastating logic. No way would the abductors let their executive prisoner live. 

Considering such an inevitability, they had little reason to keep him alive even this long… 

"So." C.J. inhaled unsteadily, then drew herself up to her full height. "We're it." 

Josh mirrored her stance, clearly bracing for combat. "What's our best course?" 

"We can't find the President," Toby almost literally growled. "But we can take out his replacement." 

"And we have to do it before they take him out," C.J. reminded them. "Otherwise we lose our best source of info about the President's location." 

Clearly she refused to surrender the hope that maybe his captors hadn't killed him yet. The others fell right in with her. To dwell on any other option was simply unendurable. 

"Definitely have to tell Charlie," Josh declared. " And Debbie. No one gets time alone with him unless we know exactly who it is." 

Leo forced them to think this through, to work past the height of the fury they shared. "If we blow the impersonator, whoever is behind this plot will know the jig's up." 

"We can't leave that criminal in command of the country!" That qualified as a bellow. Leo shot a look at the door, and was relieved to see that no one happened to be passing outside just then. They didn't build walls thick enough to contain Toby's ire. 

The Chief of Staff kept his own tone rational, cool – deadly. "We're not." 

Josh angled his head sideways, as though looking at this quandary from a slightly different perspective. "If we nail one inside man, we've got to nail them all." 

Leo nodded. "Ron will let us know when he's ready to move. He still needs to isolate the second plant. Once he's got them both under wraps…" 

What then? 

"Then we raise the nation." C.J. did not consider this to be an option. She wanted to unleash the full strength of the United States in defense of their imperiled leader. In fact, she was looking forward to it. Jed Bartlet deserved no less. 

"Thereby driving the kidnappers under cover – and the President with them!" Toby made his dislike for that idea plain. 

"We'll get one crack at this." Leo had shifted into full battle mode, as solemn and determined as any warrior taking up his weapons before striding out to war. "If we can wring the information out of our guest," his lip twisted in contempt, "our forces just might get to the hideout first. Timing will be tight. The impostor is the weak link. So far, he's got the most to lose legally." 

Only because they didn't have any hard evidence of a murder. So far. 

Josh's eyes spat sparks. "He also has the most to lose physically." 

The three others with him said a silent _Amen_. They wanted to see to that in person. 

This was an unspeakable crime against the entire nation – and against one man for whom they all cared so deeply. 

They would rescue him. No other option was acceptable. 

But, if all the forces of heaven and earth united to decree otherwise, then at the very least they would avenge him. 


	3. Sleight Of Hand 3

 

**Sleight Of Hand**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** Fanfic can contribute enormously to the identity of TV shows or movies and their characters. Even so, Aaron Sorkin deserves the credit for creation.  
**Summary:** Who's REALLY in charge of this White House? (Hint: it isn't the President.)  
**Author's Note:** Set Fall 2003; between “Constituency of One” and “Separation of Powers” (5th season) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 3 ~

"Mr. President." 

The man sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office looked up. "Leo." 

The Chief of Staff entered from his office and approached, one careful stride at a time, his face set in stone. It had demanded a conscious effort for him to use those two words. 

Oblivious, the person so addressed abandoned the executive paperwork, put down the executive pen and removed the executive eyeglasses. "I'm glad you're here. But I don't have a huge amount of time, I'm afraid. I need you in a meeting with the Secretary of Transportation as soon as possible." 

Dear God, he looked like Jed Bartlet. He _sounded_ like Jed Bartlet. 

But he wasn't. 

He rose from his chair and moved behind it. To establish a safer margin between them? 

Only then did he notice Leo's peculiar lack of acknowledgement to a presidential request/order and turned back, brows canted. "You okay?" 

Leo had no intention of dignifying that question with a reply. Nor did he have to. He had not arrived alone; his back-up was right behind him. 

"Hey, Josh!" The pseudo-President retrieved the executive blazer and drew it on, one arm at a time, in a perfectly normal fashion… except that Bartlet always inserted his hands into the sleeves from the top and flipped it over his head. 

Leo could detect the tautness, the apprehension radiating in waves from his young deputy. This was the first time Josh had laid eyes on the impostor. He couldn't bring himself to speak – just trailed his boss towards this unnerving illusion. 

Said illusion shrugged the blazer into place as he rounded the corner of the "Resolute" desk. "All right, what's blown up in our faces this…" 

Additional movement to his right drew his attention and stopped his words. Toby, C.J. and Charlie Young had just entered from the reception area. They, too, walked with a strange stiffness and closed expressions. 

Their supposed leader flashed the Bartlet smile that they all knew so well. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here. Okay, I can fit in a short impromptu." Clearly he'd realized that he had no graceful way of avoiding it. He picked a spot in front of the desk and leaned back against its highly-polished wood in a posture of listening, almost visibly sliding into character. "All ears." 

No one spoke. They merely continued to advance, like silent troops, almost in step. 

He gradually clued that something was wrong. The warm smile faded. Behind the three newer arrivals, Debbie Fiderer had abandoned her desk and wandered in as well, stopping just past the threshold. 

"You need something, Debbie?" 

She did not react to the executive voice, except to fold her hands and level her imperturbable gaze at him. 

Confusion touched those painfully familiar features. "Leo…?" He looked for answers from the highest-ranking employee present – and saw that, behind him, Margaret had now appeared in the opposite doorway. 

"Margaret, could you close that door, please," the Bartlet baritone requested. Meaning, of course, that she would remove herself first. If this meeting required the entire senior staff and the President's personal secretary, then it was pretty vital – and therefore sensitive. 

She didn't close it, and she didn't leave. She assumed a similar stance to Debbie's, lacing her fingers so tightly that her knuckles showed white even from this distance. 

And beyond her, through the open portal, could be seen at least two black-suited members of the United States Secret Service. 

The image of the President slowly rotated his head back to his right, his own attitude slipping down the scale, past "braced," towards "concerned." Beyond Debbie, more agents took up identical positions in reception, certifying that no one could enter. Or leave. 

"What…" 

The senior staff and the body man formed a horseshoe, barely three yards away, drawing together, closing in… like predators. 

"All right, somebody had better start talking in one more –" 

The door at the far end of the Oval Office opened without a knock, to admit four more operatives – one of them the Special Agent in Charge of executive security. They marched in without hesitation and without announcement. Two of the unnamed men halted only one step inside and closed the door, guarding it just like they mounted sentinel over all of their other posts… and their protectees. The third came a bit closer, grasping the carry-handle of an official-looking container that resembled a very large black plastic briefcase. 

As tall and imposing and unsmiling as always, Ron continued forward, right up to the embroidered Seal. 

Those famous blue eyes narrowed. Then, in a motion that shrieked of a hunted animal seeking an escape route, the man in the center of this inexorably-contracting ring pushed off the desk and revolved completely. Outside the bulletproof patio doors, on the West Portico, dark human shadows multiplied there as well. 

Cutting off all exits. 

Leo never took his attention from the ghost in their midst. The last footsteps stilled. His forces were in position. 

Was that a flash of guilt? A stab of fear? Even the densest criminal would guess that the cat was out. But this criminal had nothing to lose by pushing the innocent act. 

What would the real Chief Executive think? That a serious crisis had hit for sure. What would he do? Demand an explanation. "Ron, what's happened? Are we at war?" 

Were they ever. 

The answering silence rang. The impersonator turned in all directions, getting a good look at these people who had assembled before him. 

Leo's craggy visage could have been carved from marble, the lines deepest around his down-turned mouth. Even in this well-lit room, darkness seemed to gather around his eyes. 

Josh wore his trademark squint and tense jaw, just as when he faced a tough political problem. His fists constantly clenched and unclenched, _not_ a Lyman trademark at all. 

Ron's standard glower would scare most people on a _good_ day. This day wasn't, and the cold threat had increased in proportion. 

C.J.'s features were not well-suited to fury, but she managed to convey it just the same, her height and forward-angled stance providing added emphasis. 

Charlie stood out only with regard to his skin color. He wore the exact same cloak of outrage, the whites of his eyes glinting dangerously. 

Toby's head tipped back and sideways a few degrees, glaring down the slope of his nose with a lack of expression more fearsome than any scowl. 

Debbie specialized in the perfect deadpan look even during a wisecracking trade-off. The only difference here was the flame that made her vision smolder. 

Margaret looked rather less angry than the others; more like frightened. Still, she stood her ground, not about to fail in her own role. 

The two secretaries stayed near the doors, beyond immediate reach, in comparative safety. They were the designated audience for this theatrical performance, witnesses to whatever would develop. 

The other agents here, and those just outside, maintained their normal immobility. However, for once they had chosen to forego their vaunted invisibility. Their combined presence dared anyone to so much as blink the wrong way. Usually, they would be the enforcers. 

Not this time… 

The primary six trapped their identified target in a half-circle that arced from one corner of the executive desk to the other, as though planning to charge him from six angles. Every single one of them looked like they were holding onto their self-control with great difficulty. 

No one moved or made a sound – save the man in the middle. 

The sight of unsmiling, silently threatening people bearing down on you would be intimidating for anyone. If this were the President, he'd have felt an even greater unease at being looked at so coldly by his own staff. Clearly, though, even surrounded by this undeniable menace, this man intended to take his deception to the max. He didn't have much choice anyway. Someone who didn't know Jed Bartlet personally would judge his reaction as justifiable anger. More discerning individuals would label it wariness… or anxiety. 

"The executive patience is wearing thin, folks –" 

Leo shut the bluster down with three words. "Where is he?" 

"Who?" The reply sounded so guileless. 

Each syllable echoed in this unnatural quiet. "The President of the United States." 

One splintered second of silence – 

" _What_ –" The impostor gaped, almost laughing outright… and then subsiding as it became far too evident that this was no joke. 

The brows descended; the vision sharpened. He was a _really_ good actor. "Good God, Leo, have you fallen off the wagon? I'm standing right in front of…" 

No one so much as shifted. The claim died under its own weight. Even the strongest protestations don't work past a certain stage. Besides, Jed Bartlet would never have said something so insensitive – to his best friend or anyone else. 

Leo kept his hands at his sides only by an act of sheer will. "You thought we wouldn't be able to tell. You don't know how well we know him." 

Silence. Those Bartlet eyes widened. 

"You're serious." 

"The timing could not have been better. All members of the First Family are out of town. This is an indoor day. And there was a window last night." Leo reeled off the evidence quietly, mercilessly. 

"Two Secret Service operatives are in custody," Ron reported in his usual businesslike way… but a few of these people had been around the senior agent often enough to detect the extra-lethal edge. He radiated both disgust and fury that his own operatives could be turned like this. 

A member of the _other_ group now knew that his accomplices had been blown. 

Which meant that he had been blown as well. 

Before he could launch another act, Ron made a hand motion to the rear. Leo didn't follow the gesture, knowing what it meant. 

The third agent at the back of the office set his heavy case down on the low table between the two couches and clicked it open. With smooth, economical movements, he booted up the ultra-modern machinery inside, set out a few medical-looking supplies, and then snapped on a pair of pale latex gloves. 

The stranger among them watched this with not-quite-suppressed apprehension. 

"Fingerprints can be duplicated," Ron explained bluntly. "Acid to remove the original prints, then lasers to sculpt new ones. It would not be entirely impossible for someone to obtain the President's prints – say, from a glass at a dinner. Also, the President has the second most common blood type, increasing the odds of a coincidence." 

"We don't have time to run an MRI," Leo continued in almost the same methodical tone, almost masking the rage. "The absence of MS lesions would be a dead giveaway. Of course anyone who went to the trouble of perfect facial reconstruction would also replicate the prints… and the scars." 

Ron did not nod, as though the slightest motion on his part would lead to _serious_ motion. "Not only those from Rosslyn, either. There are a few childhood marks as well." 

Some of their companions must've paused to ponder this. How common would that kind of personal knowledge and detail be? But then, if the abductors could infiltrate the White House, they could certainly break into the medical files at George Washington University Hospital. 

The pseudo-Bartlet seemed to have recovered his equilibrium, or found his second wind… or else just given himself up for lost and deciding to go for broke. His bearing became downright antagonistic. "This is the biggest load of horse manure I'm sure I've ever heard. What is the _matter_ with you people? We don't have enough problems in this country already, so you have to manufacture your own? A plot to replace me, inside the airtight security of the White House? Get real." 

No one reacted. 

He exhaled. "I feel like I'm humoring a convention of paranoiacs. I don't know who or what first spawned this mass delusion, but I'm looking forward to the Kodak moment when it falls through. In the meantime, before anyone does anything rash, I'll take the liberty of pointing out some upcoming embarrassments – on the off chance that I can get you to start thinking straight. After all, you can hardly move me around in handcuffs." 

Did Leo sense a ripple among the people around him? It was a ludicrous mental picture. 

Their focus of attention probably picked it up as well, and barreled on in the same vein. "I can see it now: _President Bartlet arrested by his own head of security. Breaking news on CNN." He emitted a huff of irritation. "I suppose that's better than: Strip-searching the Commander-in-Chief in the Oval Office. A violation of Right to Privacy, or standard security procedure? Tonight on Dateline."_

His voice, his glower, his half-wave, his scathing wit – it seemed so true, so natural, that it killed even the most involuntary amusement. The staff couldn't help but feel hugely uncomfortable, facing a man who looked exactly like their President, sounded exactly like their President… 

Their anger did not diminish. Not only had persons unknown created a painstaking and _willing_ copy of Jed Bartlet, but they could not have removed Jed Bartlet from his home without injuring him first. 

Then factor in the captivity dynamics: uncooperative prisoner… hostage… victim… 

_Then_ factor in the literally global repercussions. 

Before anyone could react openly to these horrendous thoughts, the medical technician approached, displaying the tools needed for a blood sample. 

His intended donor froze. In fact, he shrank back a fraction. Everyone saw it. 

Ron eliminated all doubt and all options. "DNA doesn't lie." 

That might have been the first evidence of perspiration on the impostor's brow. He shot another fast glance in all directions, but there was no way out of this small half-moon of space, this last cursory nod to freedom left him. The unspoken total lack of choice in the submission to this test almost shrieked aloud all on its own. Slowly, he inhaled… and slowly, he extended his left hand. 

Leo took special note of this. The President was right-handed. 

On that left hand gleamed a simple gold ring… a ring they all had seen countless times before. A wedding band. 

Something new leaped into flame within the Chief of Staff's heart. Only one word could do this passion justice: hatred. Jed Bartlet wouldn't be parted from his wedding ring so long as he lived. 

With silent precision, the technician pricked the tip of the left forefinger, drew off the minute rill of blood he required, provided a sterile cotton ball with more charity than anyone in this room felt was merited, then retreated to the couch and the portable computer. 

"Every medical file on the First Family has already been compared." Ron used words like nails to a coffin lid. "Children's DNA always have many elements contributed by both parents. We've verified that our records for the President are indeed genuine." 

Even though all such records resided in Secret Service vaults, a file switch to match the biological data of the impostor would be a logical precaution in a _body_ switch, just in case suspicion did arise. However, they'd established that a substitution hadn't happened. Now the indisputable test would be run right here in front of them all. 

No way could a phony match. 

The moment the final proof came in, the phony was going down. 

The staffers didn't move. They wanted the phony to go down hard on principal alone – but they didn't relish getting rough with a man who looked and sounded so much like the man they respected most in all the world. Even Ron, a pillar of deadly efficiency, had to feel uneasy to the extreme that he was moments away from visiting physical punishment upon the mirror image of his protectee. 

To combat this first sign of wavering in their ugly task, they needed only recall the reason for it. This wasn't just a phony doing an evilly good job of imitating a man they loved. It was the image of the man they loved being twisted out of shape, distorted, manipulated, until for them the pervading sense was of sheer wrongness. 

In a very real sense, their President's face, his voice, his character, his position – his very _identity_ – had been torn from him. 

And there was far too good a chance that his life would be as well. 

This was assassination. This was _rape_. 

The phony erupted – probably in desperation. "I can save you all the bother! Here's something worth a lot more than a blood test!" He whirled, taking in the unsympathetic ranks hemming him in on three sides. "Leo: remember what you told me about a thirty-cent piece of plastic on _Air Force One?_ You called me from your office. No one could have overheard." 

The Chief of Staff didn't move a muscle, revealing not one iota of his feelings. 

"Josh. You stood in this chamber three Decembers ago and _shouted_ at me. There can't be many people who know about _that_!" 

The Deputy Chief of Staff's brows rose. The first sign of uncertainty. 

"C.J. – when you received that death threat ages back, remember what I told you about needing your own Secret Service detail? I said you were a member of my family. The only other party to that conversation was Ron." 

The Press Secretary's eyes slivered, in accentuated anger at that frightening and painful memory – and in ferocious intensity to drill through this illusion to the truth beyond. 

"Toby. You told me that your newborn children came with hats. And I said they also come with security devices." 

The Communications Director's eyes flared. He could have been even further incensed that this villain would so shamelessly draw the Wyatt-Ziegler twins into this farce… or he might have been having second thoughts as to the farce itself. 

"Charlie! How about that carving knife set I gave you? I know you too well; you wouldn't cheapen the gift by bragging about it." 

The body man's shoulders drew even tauter, bracing against a wonderful recollection that should never have been tainted by doubt. 

The centerpiece to this dilemma spread his arms and pivoted to face each of them in turn, inviting their opinion. That visage, so well-known to them all, boasted confidence. "How could any impersonator know about any of that? Huh?" 

Clearly he had played his trump card – and he had played it with panache, sowing misgivings and worry among his opponents the way even his perfect features and intonation couldn't do. 

The silence now, the strain, was paralyzing. The staff knew he wasn't whom he appeared to be. They were both terrified and infuriated by that very fact. And yet… something… 

All the evidence supported their conclusion. Their minds accepted that. There could be no other possibility. 

But their gut instincts, their hearts… facing such a perfect replication, a vibrant image they had long since learned to trust and follow and love… 

_Could_ their premise be wrong after all? Plastic surgery on skin, lengthy practice on vocal patterns, in-depth instruction on personality quirks… all were superficial. They could only cover so much. The qualities that they _failed_ to cover had been noticed and recognized as not quite right. 

Yet these… these private recollections that no one beyond the staff could have known… 

Was this an impostor doing an extremely good job with extremely detailed inside information – or just a President having a really off day? 

It was his actions today that were so un-Bartlet. Unmistakably so. 

And yet… 

Was the Secret Service about to bust the most audacious assault against the Oval Office in American history? Or was the President of the United States about to be set upon by his own staff, his own bodyguards? 

If they hurt him themselves – if they hurt him before the truth came out – 

_NO_. The _truth_ , the heart-twisting, stomach-clenching truth, was that their leader had been wrenched away from them, from their protection, from their love… and exposing his replacement did not change the appalling fact that their leader might never be able to return to them ever again. 

This cheap imitation, this co-conspirator, this _assailant_ , deserved whatever he got. And then some. 

Still, the concept of trauma being deliberately meted out to a man who so _looked_ like The Man was enough to give them all the shakes. No matter how much justification the Secret Service possessed, no matter how much pain the villain _should_ suffer for the pain he himself had caused – none of Jed Bartlet's people wanted to witness it. 

No one said a thing… but all of them started to sneak glances at each other. All of them saw the uneasiness gaining ground. 

In another fragmented minute their previous rock-solid resolution would dissolve into indecision and lack of faith in their own judgment. And the enemy would win. 

How long had they stood here, in a standoff that surpassed reason or horror? 

How long had they carried the hideous conviction of this impostor's presence? 

How long had the President been alone and helpless among his foes? 

Every additional minute that passed brought Jed Bartlet's death that much closer. __

If it hadn't struck already… 

Some element within Leo's soul cracked apart, unable to contain the internal pressure another instant. This callous, despicable counterfeiting of his best friend – 

This vicious blow against their nation's entity, against world stability – 

This manipulation of that animated face, of that resonate voice, of that brilliant mind – 

This exploitation of their treasured personal moments, of their precious loyalty, for the most powerful man and one of the very kindest men in the entire world – 

This sadistic threat to their leader, this personification of their most agonizing fear – 

Could not be tolerated for one more heartbeat. 

The Chief of Staff caught everyone by surprise as he crossed those last two yards in a rush, pounced upon the image of the President, seized both lapels of that executive blazer, and yanked hard, jerking them nose to nose. 

That executive face stared at him, eyes wide, hair dislodged, bones rattled, too shocked even to struggle. The charitable cotton ball fell forgotten to the floor. 

Not a sound came from the equally-stunned people behind him. 

Leo unleashed the full force of his rage – a rage he had never experienced before in his life, a rage that not even war had been able to provoke. His snarl through gritted teeth carried more menace than any bellow, yet it reverberated off the surrounding walls. "How do you rip a man's memories out of his mind? What does it take? Hypnosis? _Drugs_? _TORTURE_?" 

This man had Jed Bartlet's square bone structure and broad musculature, against Leo's far more wiry build – but Leo seethed with a cyclone's worth of fury. He wanted to damage that stolen face, which rightfully belonged to only one person in the world – 

"Leo." 

The quiet address went ignored. He was not about to delay his administration of justice, or _be_ delayed. One pair of blue eyes bored savagely into another. If Ron honestly believed that any words could talk him out of this – 

Apparently Ron knew that already. He stepped to the extreme limit of Leo's peripheral vision. Ready to intervene – physically, if need by. 

Okay, _his_ job demanded that the imposter remain alive for questioning. But Leo didn't answer to the same authorities. 

Right now Leo didn't answer to anyone. 

The spitting image of the President stood very still, all too aware of that fact. 

"Positive match." 

What match? Oh… the blood test. Well, that just confirmed what Leo already knew… 

Wait a sec – _positive_? 

His grip didn't weaken the least little bit, but Leo did turn his head. 

Ron stood close enough to wrestle him away… though he'd made no such move as yet. 

Josh, C.J., Toby and Charlie remained in their places, exhibiting widely-varying degrees of nervousness and confusion. 

Debbie and Margaret resembled bookends, wearing almost identical dumbfounded guppy expressions. 

The other agents gave no overt sign that they were even aware of the events and emotions permeating the Oval Office, save for the extra stiffness to their stances. 

Visible just past Ron's towering height, the medical technician still occupied a seat on the couch. Now he angled his computerized device so that the screen could be seen, and offered a reassuring thumbs-up. 

Leo's vision darted back to Ron, suddenly faltering, in urgent need of an explanation. This made absolutely no sense. How on God's green earth could the test be positive, when… 

Ron was smiling. 

_Smiling_! 

Ron almost never smiled. What could be so entertaining, or such a reprieve, as to accomplish this minor miracle? 

"The DNA sample matches perfectly." 

Perfectly? It matched _perfectly_? 

But… but that would mean... 

Now Ron switched his attention, from one of the two people before him to the other. To the man who still stood at a very real risk of bodily assault. And tipped his head in a nod of marked respect. 

"Well done, Mr. President." 

If both senior and support staff members had been astounded by previous events, they were broadsided by this calm, unhesitating accolade. Their heads rotated back and forth between these two sources of conflicting information. 

By excruciatingly-slow increments, Leo made the transition from fury to disbelief. His lips parted and his brows pinched. 

No one else so much as shifted. 

His head rotated, seemingly on its own accord, until he was staring at the floor. 

No one dared even exhale. 

Then, inch by painful inch, his head moved further… until he could finally bring himself to look up again. To look at the man whom, moments before, he had burned to eviscerate. 

That face, those eyes, hadn't changed. Not really. And yet, in some indefinable manner, the person behind them… had. 

Or maybe that was just because Leo's interpretation had also changed – suddenly and drastically. And not his interpretation alone, but his entire perspective. 

Jed Bartlet made no effort to extricate himself from the grip so near to his throat. Instead, he merely gifted his old friend with his familiar gentle smile. 

"Leo… it's me." 

It was. Amazingly, incredibly, miraculously – it was. 

The real thing. 

After all the suspicions, all the awful imaginings, all the planning, all the wrath… 

He had been wrong. 

No one attempted to rush this stupefying revelation. All waited, some with patience, some with bewilderment, until Leo finally recovered enough of himself to think about relaxing his fingers and releasing his hold. 

He dropped his gaze, unable to meet that azure evaluation any longer, and stepped back. Embarrassment, followed closely by shame, and compounded by mental exhaustion, impacted in rapid succession and he staggered. Fortunately Ron was available to latch onto one arm in a supportive grasp, manually steer him sideways, and plant him in the closer armchair. 

He just sat there, unblinking, focused on nothing, his brain awhirl. 

The voice he knew so well, the voice he had refused to trust all day, broke the spell that had descended upon them all. "I guess some explaining is in order." 

A hand came to rest upon Leo's shoulder, firm and fraternal and forgiving. He didn't raise his eyes, but he turned his head slightly in that direction and forced himself to listen – to comprehend. 

The President adopted his patented lecturing pose. "I'd like to be able to blame Ron for this little debacle, but even he can't take all the credit, because I agreed to it. In a nutshell: the whole day has been a Secret Service test." 

Five faces gawked at him. That did seem obvious at this point, but still… it required more than a single sentence and four short seconds to take it in. 

"In the highly imaginative unlikelihood that someone should succeed in sneaking me out – presumably, without my cooperation – and an impersonator in, Ron and his pals wanted to know if the people closest to me would pick up on the subterfuge, and how subtle the clues would have to be." Their leader paused, for two seconds. An endless interval right now. "And then… whether you would all react properly to the threat." 

Everyone started remembering, all too vividly, how they had reacted. And how they had acted. The violence with which they had acted. They had all been correct about the instinctive sense of wrongness – but not for the correct reason. That wrongness hadn't been caused by an impostor; it had been the result of a carefully-arranged experiment. 

The difference mattered not at all with regard to the explosive result. 

Josh shook his head dazedly at the effectiveness of the charade. C.J. shuffled her feet, pinking at the memory of the anger she had so unjustly aimed at this man. Toby's grimace could have indicated either disgust in or approval of these security methods. Charlie just smiled in delight that life was correctly aligned after all. 

Debbie nodded ruefully, admitting that she had fallen for the whole thing. Margaret pressed both hands to her neckline, as though her respirations had not yet steadied. The medical technician and the other agents, their respective talents no longer required, merely waited this out. 

Leo still sat, still struggled to digest it all. 

Bartlet didn't remove his left hand. With his right, he straightened his rumpled blazer and tried to straighten his hair. His right-hand man's berserker rage – physical and emotional – had left evidence that could not be brushed off at once. Not all of the evidence was solely physical, either. 

The last traces of that smile had faded. 

"I want to apologize to you all. I went into this knowing you'd go through a few kinds of hell today. None of us wanted to cause you any distress. Not even the Secret Service." A very brief grin flickered, purely involuntary, and was gone. "Unfortunately, the concern is valid, and there's just no other way to work it out." 

In this moment he radiated a high emotion of his own: guilt. In fact, now he was the one to display uncertainty. How would his closest confidants react to the revelation that they had not been confided in at all this time? He didn't appear any too sure that they would want to forgive him anytime soon. 

He knew them as well as they knew him. He had done what was needed to trigger their suspicions, led them into the deception, and trusted them to do the right thing. 

Perhaps he hadn't anticipated trusting them with his life. Literally. 

"I'm not quite so arrogant that I ever believed I could do _anything_ to you guys and get away without consequences. But I did misjudge the full scope of your reactions in this particular matter." The President shook his head in wonder. Even after more than five years together, their depths of loyalty and friendship towards him, and the lengths they would go to defend him, had come as a surprise. 

"All the excuses and all the apologies in the world can't undo the feelings you've already felt. I regret that most of all." Pause. "So…" He solemnly surveyed each of them, one at a time. "If anybody here wants to chew me out, or take a swing at me… that's fine." 

Some blinked. Others stared. 

He meant it. They could all see that – even the agents, who lived solely to prevent any such swinging. He was prepared to pay up in rebuke, or even in bruises, as penance for what they had endured because of him. 

No one took him up on it… but no one offered any absolution, either. Their brains had been supercharged today with extremes of fury, terror, suspicion and confusion. 

Their hearts, though, had seen with a vision beyond sight from the first, and now they fully, intuitively recognized the presence that they had been "convinced" wasn't real. This internal, incontestable affirmation of the truth helped them to finally digest the fact that he really was okay, and safe. That he always had been. 

That he had been a willing party all along. 

Bartlet accepted this unspoken truce quietly. He could ask no more. Somberly, he moved on. "Ron and I spent a very interesting few hours last night. I had to learn to play myself just a tad wrong. Even to the point of fooling my closest friend." 

His left hand squeezed a bit more in additional apology. Now Leo did twist around. Their eyes met in an unfathomable look. 

"Believe me, it's a _lot_ harder than it sounds." 

Mouths quirked among the rest of the staff, paying tribute to the executive performance. He had fooled them all. He was a good actor. 

Then all whimsy faded. He had so thoroughly deceived them that they'd been on the final verge of tearing right into him. They'd come within a hair's breadth of deliberately assaulting their President – in the mistaken belief that such violence would _help_ their President. 

Where a furious outrage had so recently predominated, mortification now reigned… no doubt tempered by at least some resentment and a hefty dollop of hurt. 

Their President smiled broadly, making it clear that he bore no grudges. Admiration shone forth as well. "People: you did great. You caught the signals early, you came up with all the options, and you launched exactly the right course." 

Josh looked convinced. Toby looked _unconvinced_. C.J. just looked grateful. Resentment and hurt couldn't hold their ground against pure relief. 

Ron picked up the thread in his usual reserved way. "If this was to work at all realistically, there was no way we could mention it to any of you in advance. Not even that we were _thinking_ about this kind of scenario. Otherwise you would have guessed that it was just a drill. You had to explore all of the variables on your own." 

"And we chose this day very carefully," Bartlet added firmly. "Secret Service paranoia or not, I wasn't about to disrupt the business of the nation." 

Toby released one long, quiet sigh. 

Abruptly, their boss seemed to decide that there hadn't been enough humor to all of this. It could only help restore the normalcy. 

"I have to say, I've got a whole new appreciation for all of you. It's reassuring to know how well you know me. And how much you'd want me back. But then, you wouldn't want to have to break in a new President." 

Predictably, grins broke out on the Lyman and Cregg fronts. 

"Of course, none of these precautions would've been necessary if I had a _normal_ job." 

_Normal_ his job wasn't and never would be. Because of the colossal authority invested in him, the staggering influences he had inherited, the sheer military strength he commanded, he lived with the threat of mortal danger every day of his life. They had to make sure that even the wildest ideas could still be detected and neutralized. Far too many people relied upon having the right kind of man at the reins. 

"Oh, and something else." All levity dissipated. The leader of the free world swept everyone present with his most resolute stare. "So long as you're still working here with me, this drill will never be repeated. If ever in the future you start to suspect that I'm not me… you'll probably be right." 

No one commented aloud. Even the remotest possibility of that coming to pass, even after this very successful test, made every spine shiver. The unspoken sentiment filled the air: May it never be! 

They also got the hidden message: that this must not be discussed with anyone else. The very last thing they wanted was to give ideas to the wrong sort of person, and have to go through the whole nightmare again. 

"Okay, then!" Bartlet visually touched each of his employees – his friends. Exactly the way he always did. "Assuming I'm forgiven, or that I eventually will be forgiven, do you think we can put aside these vague theories and see how much of the day we can salvage?" 

They all accepted that rhetorical question as both a dismissal and the concluding note on a practice exercise that they prayed would never, ever be applied in earnest. 

As though only just released from that spell at this final stage, the medical technician started packing up his equipment and the extra agents filed through the rear door. Those additional forces outside and in the adjacent offices dissipated without a sound. 

Ron hovered a bit longer. It was his responsibility to be the last operative out, and to issue the final report to The Powers That Be. And to the Commander-in-Chief. 

"You did well yourself, Mr. President." 

The Man's visage didn't change, trapped squarely between approval of the plan's correct execution and repentance of the toll it had taken on all of its players. Still, from the senior agent that was high praise. 

Bartlet offered merely a short nod in response. He took no pride in lying to his people, for any reason, and found little consolation in his talent as a con artist. There would almost certainly be some personal fallout yet to come. 

The Special Agent in Charge departed, removing the last of the outsiders to this political and personal circle. 

Josh stepped forward first, extending his hand. He needed that tangible contact to set the seal of authenticity and bring down the curtain on this very unsettling occurrence. "Welcome back, sir." 

An executive eyebrow rose. "I really _didn't_ go anywhere, you know." 

"Yes. You did." Toby's tone was unyielding on that point. For the duration of this test, while the illusion prevailed, they had all believed it to be real. Their belief made it undisputedly, horrifyingly true. 

"Well, if you're going to get all existential on me, Toby…" 

The Communications Director let that go, settling for a handshake of his own. The first among them to take offence at anything like injustice, even his usually gruff attitude had been softened by the bracing knowledge that life was in order after all. 

Waiting her turn, C.J. didn't offer any words. From the glow in her eyes, no words would suffice. She just leaned close and gave their leader a gentle kiss on the cheek. He accepted her joy at his safety, and in the same quiet he admitted his regret for the terrible stress that she and the others had been forced to endure. 

Friends can and will forgive a lot. The senior staff exited peacefully, one and all with lightened hearts. 

Charlie hung back, obviously not sure where he stood by comparison to this ultra-discerning, conclusion-jumping posse. Bartlet solved the matter by offering him a handgrip as well, and then a light clap on the shoulder, giving the body man all the comfort he could desire. He had played his own role, and an important one at that. He had been included in the denouement, too. He was very much a member of the inside group serving _and_ protecting the President. 

Debbie waited an extra beat after Charlie had walked past her, just in case she might be needed for some real business now. Her boss gave her his trademark reverse-nod, signaling that the next batch of paperwork could wait a bit longer. She reflected that gesture with a forward nod and stepped out, closing the door behind her. 

Margaret lingered awkwardly; _her_ boss still remained. Her boss's boss nodded to her as well, silently promising that he would take care of the Chief of Staff himself. She accepted that at once and made her own exit, shutting the last aperture to this ovoid office. 

That left only two. 

Two very close comrades, two partners in running the government of the world's strongest nation… one of whom, mere minutes ago, had been ready to kill the other. 

"You okay?" 

That was the same question asked by the same person at the start of this confrontation. It carried a very different intonation and a whole different connotation now. 

Leo waited another few moments, still pounded by today's events and the emotions they had engendered. He had observed and listened to all that took place around him during these past several minutes, yet still felt strangely apart from it. Out of place. In the wrong. 

Then, eyes averted, he slowly levered himself out of the armchair. He moved stiffly, as though he had neither strength nor courage to spare. 

The persistent silence at long last dragged him about. Again, almost against his will, their gazes met. 

Bartlet waited, hands pocketed, his slight smile back in place. 

Wait – something had changed. That smile still wanted to reassure… but it had lost some of its assertiveness. And it hadn't lost all of the guilt. 

Leo had no idea how to start or where to start. 

"Sir…" 

"You done beating yourself up?" 

Right now he was very much of two minds. The first retained predominance: not only had he made a colossal mistake, but he had lost all control and objectivity in his handling of what could have been a national emergency. 

If this had been real – he would have jeopardized everything. 

If it had been a simple error of judgment instead – he would have hurt his friend, his President, with both his lack of trust and his _fists_. 

"You want to beat _me_ up?" 

At that facetious offer Leo's other mindset blazed, brief yet hot. There had been nothing the slightest bit restrained about his earlier intent. He had gone through a purgatory of fear today – so intense that he had shelved the business of the nation, instigated official moves, scared several colleagues and almost committed aggravated assault. 

Overwhelming relief had soothed that fury like a bracing rain… and yet one or two final embers still smoldered in the wake of the forest fire. He certainly wouldn't lash out at his President (not physically, at least), but the desire had not died completely. 

They had both been manipulated by the Secret Service. The difference was that one had been willing, and one unknowing. 

"I want to beat _Ron_ up." 

Bartlet snorted. "Good luck. I can order him not to defend me from you, but I wouldn't bank on success in ordering him not to defend himself." 

Leo almost offered to try anyway. He would have liked to vent the thwarted anger that had been building unbearably, as well as the acute annoyance of being played like a chess piece. Plus, he'd made a hash of a security exercise and threatened his national leader to boot. He felt like he deserved some kind of reprimand, and Ron could most definitely see to that as well. 

Actually, for this most stalwart of men, the intent to do injury to his national leader – a federal offence – had nothing on the terror of so nearly doing the injury to his best friend. Sure, he'd been provoked, but _still_... 

These two had long shared an impressive acuity for picking up on each other's thoughts. It also helped that each knew how to read the smallest nuances in the other's facial expression. 

"Leo, you were right on the mark. Don't you see? You didn't screw up. You were set up. Not because we wanted to, but because we had to." The regret resonated now. "You followed the clues to exactly the right conclusion." 

Leo peered into those blue eyes. Surely he wasn't just saying that? No, these two had never operated like that. 

"But… I almost…" 

Bartlet really smiled now. "Kicked my ass? But I wasn't fighting back – yet." 

The humor, and the comic memories it purposefully evoked, smoothed out some of the deepest lines on Leo's features. 

"You understand that I didn't _want_ to do this. They had to convince me first." 

Long pause. Still, Leo had to admit that he could see the point. "Yeah." The Secret Service could be famously persuasive. 

"I gave 'em a good argument over it, though. You can take anything to extremes." 

So much power concentrated in one office, one life… Sometimes it felt as though they could _never_ take enough precautions to safeguard that office and that life, no matter what the cost to the possessor of both – or to those around him. 

"Listen…" The Man shifted his weight, looking more regretful than ever. "I'm really sorry about that 'wagon' crack. You know I would never just say that to you. Or to anyone." 

His dear friend did know. "Unless you had to." 

"I had to convince you that I wasn't _me_. Only after that was I allowed to try to convince you I _was_ me." 

"Well, it worked." 

"Too well, by my take." 

This heartfelt apology smoothed out many of the deepest scores on Leo's heart. The two men traded a solemn nod that said nothing, and yet everything. 

Then the President's amusement peeked out again. "Let me tell you, I do not want to see you that mad again, ever. It's scary on the receiving end." 

Leo's embarrassment came back for an encore. 

Bartlet clearly did not intend to permit that. His whole posture projected earnestness. "Man, Leo – you didn't feel that anger _at_ me; you felt it _for_ me. And that's a world of difference." 

The White House Chief of Staff processed this, a sentiment alive with sincerity… and, pound by pound, the weight of self-doubt began to lift from his soul. 

The President of the United States reached out and touched the sleeve of the comrade on whom he relied so heavily. "There's only one way I can do this job, Leo. I can do it, and I _will_ do it… because you're doing it with me. Because I know you've got my back."

> _AUTHOR'S NOTE: I actually came up with this idea during the first season, *long* before "No Exit." Just so you know._
> 
> \- SheilaVR. (Jubilate); July 2005


End file.
